Ruminations
by Nancy Kaminski
Summary: Myra Schanke wonders about her husband's new partner.


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Ruminations  
By Nancy Kaminski  
(c) June 1999 (print), 2000 (web)  
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The horizon was just barely beginning to pale when Myra Schanke was  
awakened by the splash of headlights across the bedroom ceiling and  
the mutter of a large engine idling in the driveway.  
  
She lay still and listened to the sounds coming from downstairs-the  
click and scrape of the front door opening and closing; the quiet  
tread of her husband's footsteps through the living room and up the  
stairs, pausing a minute partway down the hall as he looked in on  
their sleeping daughter; the closet door in the spare room opening and  
closing as he undressed; and finally, the hiss and gush of the shower  
as he washed away the remnants of the nightshift and made ready for  
sleep.  
  
The bedroom door quietly opened and closed as Don Schanke made his way  
through the darkness to his side of the bed. The bed sagged as he sat  
down, then bounced gently when he slid under the covers and squirmed a  
little to get comfortable.  
  
"Hi, hon," Myra said softly, rolling over to put her arm across his  
chest. She kissed him briefly, then snuggled against him. "Hmmmm," she  
murmured contentedly. "How'd it go tonight?"  
  
Don sighed and eased himself into a more comfortable position. He  
kissed Myra's forehead and said, "Sorry, didn't mean to wake you."  
  
"S'all right. I heard the car pull up."  
  
He chuckled quietly. "That boat! I guess it could be worse -- he could  
have turned it into a street rod or something and really make some  
noise." He snorted. "I never thought I'd be on patrol riding around in  
an antique Cadillac. Damnedest thing I ever saw."  
  
Myra smiled, shook him gently, and repeated, "So, tell me, how'd it go  
tonight?"  
  
He shrugged. "Okay, I guess. It was a quiet night. We mostly talked to  
guys in bars about a stabbing that happened a couple of days ago. It  
was talk, talk, talk... and then we got to write up the reports." He  
yawned. "Just another shift. Nothing exciting."  
  
"I like that kind of shift. Unexciting. Safe."  
  
"Yeah, I suppose I do, too."  
  
She asked pensively, "How're you getting along with your new partner?"  
  
He sighed. "Not bad, I suppose. He's nothing like Jimmy, though," he  
said, referring to his old partner. "He's about as communicative as a  
clam, Nick is. He doesn't hang out with the guys, he doesn't drink,  
smoke, eat -- hell, I haven't seen him go to the can yet." Don  
caressed Myra's shoulder reflectively. "I can't figure him out."  
  
Myra's thoughts ran back to her one and only meeting with her  
husband's new partner. Nick had come by to pick him up because she had  
needed the car that evening. She and Jenny had gone outside with Don,  
curious to meet Nick after what Don had told them about him.  
  
Nick had gotten out of the car when she approached, greeted her with a  
curiously grave courtesy, and exchanged pleasantries with her and  
Jenny. He was charming, but there was a kind of remoteness to him Myra  
couldn't quite figure out. He had watched Don kiss her and Jenny  
goodbye with the strangest look on his face. She was usually an astute  
judge of character, but in Nick's case her talent had been to no  
avail, and that unnerved her.  
  
But now wasn't the time to mention her reservations about her  
husband's new partner, so instead she merely said, "He's cute."  
  
Don snorted again. "I'll take your word for it."  
  
"Well, he is. And he seems nice, too. You should bring him over again,  
and for more than five minutes." And then maybe I might understand the  
man protecting my husband a little better, she added silently.  
  
"I dunno. He doesn't act like he wants that sort of stuff. He's pretty  
standoffish with just about everyone, except the ME I told you about  
-- you know, Natalie."  
  
"Girlfriend?"  
  
He shrugged. "Can't figure that out, either. But he unbends a little  
bit for her, that's for sure."  
  
Silence fell for a bit as they lay companionably together, savoring  
the quiet intimacy, the ordinary end to an ordinary day. Myra was  
beginning to get used to Don's night shifts-she was happy that they  
could be together in the afternoons before he went to work, happy that  
he could meet Jenny at the school bus and have time with his daughter  
before she got engrossed in homework or the TV.  
  
And somehow they had fallen into the habit of having these quiet chats  
in the predawn hours, if she awakened-making decisions on what to buy,  
how to spend vacations, all the things that made their family work.  
Myra remembered hearing her parents' murmuring voices late at night  
behind their bedroom door. Maybe, unconsciously, she and Don were just  
following their example.  
  
"How was Jenny's piano lesson?" Don asked presently.  
  
Myra smiled into the dark. "She got all the way through 'Claire de  
Lune' without a mistake. Mrs. LeTourneau says she's doing well. Maybe  
we should think about getting her a real piano in place of that  
electronic keyboard. There's room for one of those little uprights in  
the spare room."  
  
"I thought you said the washing machine was going?"  
  
"I can manage for a while. Let's think about it."  
  
" 'Kay." He paused for a moment. "You know, Nick's got a huge grand  
piano in that big empty warehouse he calls a home."  
  
"Really?" Myra was intrigued. "So he plays?"  
  
"I guess. Why else would he have one?"  
  
"Maybe he inherited it? You never told me what his place looks like,  
you know, except that it was a loft in a warehouse. What's it like?"  
  
Don shifted position and yawned again. "Big. Dark. Sort of bare. He's  
got metal shutters on the windows to keep out the light -- you know,  
that strange allergy that I was telling you about? Um, black leather  
furniture. A really big television -- man, I'd love to watch the  
Stanley Cup playoffs on that thing! And weird knickknacks, pots and  
stuff that look real old. Oh, and a motorcycle."  
  
She said, amused, "A motorcycle! Inside?"  
  
"Yup. Must be another collectible, 'cause he's never ridden it to  
work."  
  
"It sounds like he's got some money, doesn't it? I mean, all those old  
things, and the rent on that loft must be a lot."  
  
He said smugly, "He doesn't rent, he owns it. The whole building, in  
fact, and a couple next door."  
  
"Oh, so he does talk a little bit, huh?" Myra raised an eyebrow.  
  
Don cleared his throat embarassedly. "Well, not exactly. I, uh, did a  
little research. See, I had to check on some property ownership on a  
case we were working, and I thought, hey, as long as I was in City  
Hall, I might as well, um..."  
  
Myra raised herself on her elbow and looked at him. "Donald G.  
Schanke, you were spying on your partner!"  
  
"Well, sort of, I guess." He sounded unrepentant. "Actually, the  
reason I did was that I handed him his suit coat when we were leaving  
the office, and I noticed the label."  
  
"So?"  
  
"It was custom made. In Paris. He doesn't afford that kind of stuff on  
a cop's salary, that's for sure, and I got to wondering." He shrugged.  
"So I did a little checking."  
  
"That's not very nice, dear -- and isn't it illegal? Misuse of  
authority or something?"  
  
"Nope, they're public records. It's not like I found out about his  
bank balance or anything." He paused. "Hmmm, wonder how much dough he  
has?"  
  
"You're terrible! Leave the poor man alone! Anyway, that's not  
important as long as he takes care of you and does his job, right?"  
  
"Yeah, but you can't blame a guy for wondering, now, can you?"  
  
Myra gave him The Look. She knew that Don would feel it even in the  
dark. She was not disappointed.  
  
"Okay, okay," he said. "I'll be good." He yawned massively. "Good  
night, hon. You can yell at me again this afternoon..." He relaxed and  
let sleep begin to steal over him.  
  
Myra lay staring pensively at the ceiling, thinking about Nick. She  
pictured him all alone in his loft, trapped there whenever the sun was  
out. What a horrible existence that must be, to lose the sun and the  
beauties of the day! She wondered if he had always had the allergy, or  
if he had enjoyed a normal life at least for a few years. She hoped  
so.  
  
She pictured him playing the piano for himself, or watching his big  
screen television, safe behind his steel shutters. No family, few  
friends, no girl -- just himself.  
  
She thought again of the look on his face as he had watched Don say  
goodbye to his family, and she realized it was longing, and regret,  
and jealousy, and sadness, all mixed together and held tightly under  
control behind that wall he had erected.  
  
For all his good looks and apparent wealth, she realized, Nick was  
alone. Talk about a cliche, she thought ruefully, but there you go.  
Cliches are often true.  
  
"I bet he's lonely," she murmured to herself.  
  
"Hnnngh?" Don murmured, half-asleep. "You say something, hon?"  
  
"Shh, it's nothing." She smoothed his hair back and kissed him. "Go to  
sleep."  
  
" 'Kay."  
  
Myra listened to his even breathing and felt immensely lucky. She had  
him, and he had her, and Jenny had them both, and they were complete.  
  
Poor Nick, she thought as she drifted off to sleep again...and lucky,  
lucky me.  
  
  
  



End file.
